


Roommates

by aesc, dogeared, sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-15
Updated: 2007-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:01:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesc/pseuds/aesc, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/pseuds/dogeared, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old Mrs. Kaplan loves her neighborhood and has no intention of moving. Her husband paid off the mortgage five years ago, she raised her children in her well-loved house, held Mr. Kaplan's wake there, and she's staying put, no matter what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roommates

  
____spacer____

  
Old Mrs. Kaplan loves her neighborhood and has no intention of moving. Her husband paid off the mortgage five years ago, she raised her children in her well-loved house, held Mr. Kaplan's wake there, and she's staying put, no matter what.

Admittedly, she never imagined . . .

Well.

When young John Sheppard moves in next door she thinks he's a sweet boy, occasionally raking her yard or shoveling her driveway and flirting (despite her warnings) with her married daughters. For the most part, he keeps to himself and when asked what he does, just smiles politely and changes the subject.

Then he gets a housemate, Rodney McKay, who never rakes Mrs. Kaplan's yard or shovels her driveway and who called Susan's husband (an engineering professor at the university) a sub-moronic imbecile (at the neighborhood's annual summer block party, no less).

That Mrs. Kaplan happens to agree with this assessment of Susan's husband is beside the point – she's of the belief that if you can't say anything nice about somebody, then you shouldn't say anything at all. Rodney McKay doesn't subscribe to this belief; if he did, Mrs. Kaplan thinks, the neighborhood would be a much quieter place.

Possibly there'd be fewer explosions, for a start.

The first explosion had woken Mrs. Kaplan from a sound sleep – not an easy thing to do these days – and when she rushed to the window to see what had been destroyed, she saw only a faint glow coming from the basement window of John Sheppard's house.

This happens several times over the next few months. Mrs. Kaplan knows what the world is like – she reads the paper, watches _Dateline_ , and knows exactly what young people like John Sheppard and Rodney McKay can get up to if left to their nefarious wiles. Determined to nip the neighborhood's criminal element in the bud, she marches over the morning after the third explosion and bangs on John Sheppard's door.

Rodney McKay opens it.

"You're not a Jehovah's Witness, are you?" he asks, staring at her suspiciously, clearly not recognizing her.

"Are you running a methamphetamine laboratory in your basement, young man?" she demands.

"Excuse me?" Rodney McKay draws himself up and glares at her. "Do I _look_ like the kind of person who would voluntarily destroy his brain cells for a cheap high? Or any kind of high, for that matter?"

"You look like a very impolite young man, Mr. McKay," Mrs. Kaplan says. She wonders what kind of uncivilized people are responsible for his upbringing; if he'd been hers, "I'd have you over my knee by now."

Rodney McKay's face turns very red and his mouth works soundlessly for a moment at that, but before he can say anything else, Mrs. Kaplan hears John Sheppard asking who's at the door.

"Jehovah's Witness!" Rodney McKay shouts back, then smirks triumphantly at her and slams the door with a flourish.

Mrs. Kaplan shakes her head. Those boys are getting up to no good, she'd bet her best copy of _Readers Digest_ on it.

*****

The no good Rodney tends to find himself up to doesn't quite match the lurid hue of Mrs. Kaplan's fantasies. Rather, it involves a lot of sitting on the front steps of the house, dreamily watching as John wields a rake and gathers leaves.

It's a new thing, this fascination he has with muscles and sweat. He can't seem to help but pay close attention to the way John's shoulders are defined by the tight material of his t-shirt, or the way the hem rides up when he bends to pull leaves from the teeth of his rake. It's so new a thing he hasn't yet worked out how to hide that he's doing it – doesn't _know_ he's staring until John looks back over his shoulder, glances at him from beneath dark eyelashes and catches him paying far too much attention to his ass. Rodney feels himself grow red and flustered. He's not much good with over-the-shoulder looks, it turns out.

"You wanna help?" John asks in the slow, sly voice that means he's asking a different question entirely, a question like enjoying what you see? Rodney says, "No, absolutely not," with his heart in his throat, and John shrugs ( _elegantly_ , the insufferable prick) and kneels down to pick up a fallen branch.

(Rodney can't quite keep back a gasp when John's jeans slip down his hips, catching on his boxers at the top of the neat curve of his ass, and John looks up at him again and grins.)

"You should at least be wearing gardening gloves!" Rodney says in a rush, irritated (mostly with himself), and it takes him four tries to get the front door open and stumble inside. But the gloves (he was going to fetch them, not hiding, honest) are in the garage, and seriously, Sheppard's stupidity must be contagious, because before moving in with him, Rodney never would have done something as idiotic as get caught staring at his roommate's ass or the contour of his back, or something equally imbecilic, like forgetting where the gardening gloves are. Now he has to stomp all the way through the house and out to the garage, but what should he expect when John Sheppard's someone who doesn't take the time to put on gardening gloves in the first place?

"Blood blisters," he says to John minutes after, thrusting the gloves at him and glaring to make John realize exactly how profoundly stupid he is and how much his stupidity is affecting Rodney's brain. "If you develop toxemia, it won't be my fault." And then Rodney's inside again, where it's cool and dim (a person could get sunstroke out there), and he's thunking the back of his head against the door because when he closes his eyes, he sees John's tan hand (dirt smeared over his knuckles) taking the gloves from Rodney's pale one, and there's a little crescent of a frown between John's eyebrows.

Blood blisters, he thinks hysterically, and it's probably a good thing he got away before John could say anything, before Rodney could (oh God) reach out and feel the sweat-dirt-slickness of John's wrist. Rodney McKay's been a lot of things in his life, but stupid is most emphatically not one of them, and maybe he can salvage this near-disaster after all if he just goes to ground and doesn't show his face for oh, two weeks, maybe three. But then someone tries to open the front door, and it's John's soft step that's resting behind it, and Rodney wonders which of the two, embarrassment or a heart attack, would be the worse way to go.

John isn't fazed – just squeezes by, and his whole body brushes up against Rodney's. Rodney holds his breath (but not before he inhales the way John smells of grass and sweat and sun and _outdoors_ ), and John's fingers leave trails of warmth where they linger along Rodney's hip.

"Thirsty," John says, and his voice dips and snags on something tight and yearning in Rodney's chest – something Rodney didn't know he _possessed_ until he answered the ad for a roommate, reasonable rent, take-out-the-trash duties, basement storage.

"Thirsty," Rodney repeats dumbly, and he finds himself following John through the hall and into the tiny kitchen, watching as he pulls the milk from the fridge door and drinks straight from the carton. It's downright unsanitary – Rodney ought to protest and make discouraging noises and find statistics on garden beetles and death from pasteurized hornworm toxemia of the head – but it's hard when the line of John's throat's right there for the touching (oh god, and the tasting), dark with stubble and backlit by the sun. John's leaving grimy fingerprints on the milk carton, and when he bends his head to swipe his sweaty temple against his shoulder, he smears dirt on the sleeve and his neck pops loudly. Rodney mumbles, "Shower," and he's not sure whether it's a suggestion for John or an idea of what he needs for himself. Desperately. Cold, _cold_ shower. That'd do the trick.

"Yeah?" John asks, and when he puts the milk back and closes the fridge door, turns toward Rodney, he's backlit head to toe, and Rodney can't see his face, doesn't know what he means exactly – only knows that his own face is burning and he can't remember the mechanics of how to breathe. So he sits down hard in one of the kitchen chairs – maybe he really does have heatstroke, or maybe his sugar's dipping low, because he feels dizzy, a little shaky, feels like he could be hallucinating the lean, glowing outline of John Sheppard. John Sheppard the leaf-raking tempter; John Sheppard the milk-drinking whore.

"You feeling okay?" John asks, and god, _oh god_ , he's pressing one of his dirty, warm hands to Rodney's forehead, crouching down to look up into Rodney's face. "You're kinda warm."

And Rodney wants to laugh hysterically because warm doesn't come close to describing what's happening to his various, assorted and sundry body parts, but oh – oh god, John licks his bottom lip and Rodney can't _help_ himself. Screw caution and the fact that he was pretty sure, before lunch, he was straight, and screw his plans to read the latest version of Cauldicot's thesis before dinner because – because there's this, just this – and . . .

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, and leans in and kisses him.

John's mouth tastes sweet and green, like maybe he was sucking on a blade of grass when he was out in the sun encouraging freckles, and okay, Rodney doesn't know what grass tastes like, but he chases the hint of it around John's mouth anyway, touches his tongue to John's and to the left corner of his mouth, swipes it across John's pouty lower lip – and John, for his part, opens his mouth wide and lets him take what he will.

He does more than let him – nudges Rodney's knees apart and slides between them, kneels there, leaning into the heat of Rodney's body as if it's the most usual thing for him to do in the world. He kisses like he does everything, Rodney realizes – cocksure and slow, lazy with the heat of it, like the sun's slid down to the marrow of his bones and turned everything beneath his skin golden with want, golden with need, need he's nudging into Rodney's mouth, sweet and dangerous, and his fingertips are walking some agonizing path across the small of Rodney's back and Rodney can't even _think_ anymore. Everything narrows to the pressure of John's fingers on his skin – John pressing dirt from the whorls of his fingerprints (unique, unique) right into Rodney's being; the pressure of John's mouth sliding wetly over Rodney's jaw – and Rodney feels like he's being measured and marked, and he swears, impossibly, that John's voice isn't anything but fond when he huffs against Rodney's throat, "Don't forget to breathe, McKay."

"That's – " Rodney's breath hitches and he has to take a moment, "easy for you to say!" he finishes, plaintive and trembling and out of his depth.

John pulls back, strokes the small of Rodney's back with long, able thumbs, over and over, repetitive gestures, and Rodney can feel how his spine's collapsing beneath the confidence of that small affection. "Shhh," John whispers. "This is – " He cracks a lopsided grin. "Good, yeah?"

And Rodney leans forward to seal his agreement with a demanding kiss, because slow is all well and good for the likes of John Sheppard, but his own body's telegraphing _want_ and _need_ and _Jesus Christ_ he wants to rub himself all over every grass-stained inch of John's body and _this can't be normal._ He tears his mouth away and stares, panting softly, fingers still clutching at John's dusty shirt. John's mouth is red and swollen, and Rodney thinks weakly, _Oh hell. I did that_. "You're not just doing this so I'll deal with the recycling, are you?" he asks, even as he's sliding off the chair and practically into John's lap, and he hardly feels the impact of his knees on the horrible linoleum because he has one of John's thighs sandwiched between his own (one of John's absurdly long, warm, muscled thighs), and oh, oh, that's a whole different kind of pressure.

"Yeah," John breathes into Rodney's neck, right before he swipes his tongue below Rodney's ear. "That's it exactly." And he bites down gently against the curve of Rodney's jaw.

It's such a _tender_ gesture that Rodney wants to wrap his arms around John and squeeze his shoulders, wants to do ridiculous things like pet his hair – and maybe Rodney can get away with doing just that, because he has a thumb stroking John's temple and his fingers are flexing against John's scalp, and John's leaning into him with his whole, lovely body.

"I, uh," Rodney manages, nosing John's cheek, "didn't see - this coming."

John huffs a breath of laughter against Rodney's ear, twists himself and nudges a kiss to Rodney's waiting mouth. "I did." He tugs Rodney's bottom lip between his teeth for just a moment, hums low as he rocks against Rodney's thigh. "Last night. The night before. Night before that."

"Oh," Rodney says, "oh," and he has to stop himself or he'll just keep saying _oh_ , over and over, because that's all his formidable brain can summon to describe the feeling of John, of _John's cock_ heavy in his jeans – to describe the feeling that John _knew this_ – and he flexes the muscle in his thigh just to feel John shudder.

"Oh," John breathes, "yeah, like that, and . . ." And what, thinks Rodney, and _what?_ But then he gets his answer – John's fingers busy at his fly, and god, just that glancing pressure makes him start and suck in a breath and John's dragging down his zipper, sliding a hand inside his shorts and _oh_ . . . "Like this," John murmurs, and his voice is raw, hazy with want, and it does things to Rodney's insides that make his cock twitch against John's palm.

John handles him just as well as he handles a rake, Rodney thinks a little crazily, and then he thinks _callus_ , he thinks _strong_ and _hot_ , and he presses his palm to the seam of John's jeans, rocks into John's fist and imagines he can feel himself sliding (slick and intimate) all the way along the lifeline of John's hand. And that's when it gets hot and frantic, triggered (he thinks) by the way his hand cups John and squeezes just a little, because now John's kissing him and the laziness is gone – it's clumsy and wild and fantastically sloppy and John's pulling at his dick and twisting his wrist, squeezing Rodney's cock on the upstroke until Rodney's shaking, shuddering, clinging to John as the muscles in his belly twitch and spasm, tighten and hold in that one, long, glorious moment before _oh Jesus . . . I'm coming all over his hand._

Rodney's breathing now, sort of, great gusting breaths, and when he feels like his heart's not going to fall out of his chest, he reaches for John's fly – But John grabs his wrist, holds Rodney's hand to his groin _hard_ and pushes, pushes, eyes closed tight, mouth wide open, and he's coming in his jeans, and it's ridiculously hot and totally unfair because Rodney didn't even get to _see_ , and John's slumping against him, and Rodney's wondering how soon they can do this again.

Rodney pets John's hair absently, noses faltering kisses to the crown of his head, and he's about to say something when John shifts and looks at him, grinning and dazed. Rodney finds himself grinning back – like they've both discovered something _cool_ and clandestine and totally unexpected – and Rodney realizes they can do this again anytime they want. 

And if you're wondering about what happens to Mrs. Kaplan, check [here](http://dogeared.livejournal.com/109086.html?thread=764190#t764190)! :D

And! Podficced by [](http://summertea.livejournal.com/profile)[**summertea**](http://summertea.livejournal.com/) [here](http://community.livejournal.com/sgapodfic/25376.html)! And find [](http://cybel.livejournal.com/profile)[**cybel**](http://cybel.livejournal.com/)'s audiobook version of the same [here](http://community.livejournal.com/sgapodfic/30896.html)!


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